Me, age 12, speaking sternly to my best friend Carly: “Have you accepted Jesus into your heart?” Carly, now sporting a semi-confused expression instead of her usual jovial face: “Umm, no I don’t think so.” Me, extremely pretentiously: “Well you need to, or else you’re going to hell.”
Now, without continuing this embarrassing, horrible slice of dialogue from junior high, I can sum up what followed rather easily. My friend was not raised in a Christian household, so naturally she took my condemnation with a grain of salt. Her lack of reaction caused me to feel a sort of pity for her. I, her blessed counterpart, would experience the gifts of a divine afterlife with the Lord my God, and she.well, she was going straight into the inferno of Hades. Poor Carly, if only she would listen to me. I was trying my best to save her after all.
Lets cut to the present shall we, where I currently cringe at past moments like this. Who was I to judge my fellow human being? To tell her where she was going to end up, and offer her a solution like I was made of something more special than she was? Every Sunday my grandparents made sure I accompanied them to church. They went to “big church,” and I went to “Seekers,” a special group for 5th and 6th graders. Somewhere along the line I transformed into a God-fearing, bible reading, hymn-singing, verse memorizing junior Jesus powerhouse with the confidence to point my moral deciphering finger at anyone who seemed a tad out of line.
I was told at church that anyone who did not follow His ways would most certainly spend an eternity down below. This struck a chord with me, and at such an impressionable young age I couldn’t help walking around dividing people into categories: the heaven- bound Christians, and the despicable sinning Satan lovers. I really couldn’t fathom at that point in life that there was any other way to be. Being Christian was clearly the only true religion. Why couldn’t everyone see that?
Others could, have instead interpreted the halo that I walked around with, as a fluorescent sign reading: “I AM BETTER THAN YOU,” and this I am sure is true. The thing was, I was not alone in my endeavors. I had a brigade of well doers by my side in the form of my “small group.” It was here in this judgmental group that we would sit around in a circle once a week and divulge our sins to one another in an attempt to make it okay with God. I mean, it was okey-dokey that Sally gave Tim a hand job while her parents were out, and it was fine that Jenny smoked one of her brother’s cigarettes and washed it down with a swig of brandy. We were Christians, and because of this, our sins were forgiven if we asked. Our small group leader had issues of Cosmopolitan laying out on her coffee table when we would come over for God’s sake. Way to bring it back to the Lord.
I’m sure you can see where this is going, and I am amazed looking back that I did not seeing it coming then. Our small group of course shattered by the time we hit high school, which unfortunately was around the same time our pastor was discovered having an extramarital affair. Maybe this was the first time I questioned my faith, or at least the first time it was brought to my attention that even Christians screw up occasionally. Either way, it paved a long and sinful road of resentment and loss of identity that caused me much grief later in life. My safety umbrella I called Christianity was leaning sideways, allowing a rainstorm of issues and questions regarding my faith to pelt me in the face.
Freshman year of high school, Carly’s room. Me: “Turn that off, it says bad words.” (Andre Nikatina – Ayo for Yayo) Carly: “Shut up.” Me: “Seriously, Jesus would never listen to something like that.” Carly: “Shut up.”
Junior year of high school, alone at Carly’s house. Me: “Dude, your parents are gone, lets drink.” Carly: “Vodka or rum?”
Okay. (Insert long, hesitant sigh here.) So, I snapped. Around the time I turned 16, I decided that I no longer cared what the people at church said, and my new motivation for attending service was no longer the message, but the fact that they now served free bagels and cream cheese (and a nice fresh fruit spread if I might add) on Sunday mornings. Gone were my judging eyes, my ever present and ready to be recited testimony of faith, and the badge promising I was no less than a disciple of God. But- now listen up, this is crucial: I still knew that I was a Christian, and that as soon as I decided to shape up God would take me back into his forgiving arms and I would continue on to heaven as planned.
I have lived out this mantra since. I am bordering on 22 now, and only about eight months ago did I finally come to terms with the fact that not only am I not an exemplary Christian, but I don’t really buy what they are selling. Please don’t attack, but rather hear me out. In light of recent events having to do with Proposition 8, I not only refuse to buy what Christianity sells, but rather, I cant stand it. I love gay people. By this I mean I have a number of gay friends, and a few gay family members.
My lifetime Christian grandmother after I divulged my no-no stance on Prop 8: “We give them the same rights. Why do they have to call their marriage the same thing as real marriage? Why can’t they call it something else? Real marriage is between a man and a woman.” Me, jaw sweeping the ground: “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We don’t give them the same rights. I mean they can’t be with their significant other if an emergency happens.they are being stripped of their.”
At this point it’s not necessary to note her further ignorant comments, because as I am sure you can gather, they were quite off base. The thing I am trying to say is, I fear that the Christians in my life, the ones who are supposed to be the most un-judgmental and forgiving people like ever, are probably the least. Toward the end of high school it turned out that my youth leader had been having inappropriate relations with two of my peers when we were in 6th grade. SLAM! Hit with another rainstorm of doubt.
I think half of the appeal of belonging to a religion for me was the security of an afterlife. I mean, it feels good to think that when I die I’m going to relax leisurely on a white cloud eating all the chocolate and French fries I want without getting fat. It feels so good in fact, that I maintained this false persona of pseudo Christian up until recently. But now, I can say assuredly and with utmost confidence, that I have NO IDEA what happens when you die, or where you go, or whose religion is right. No idea at all. Scary? Kinda. Am I relieved? A little.
I respect those who are adamant in their faith, I do. I was once in that mindset as well. I guess all I’m saying is that I felt the need to come out of the closet and say that I don’t know all the answers, and I’m okay with that. Oh, and to say, sorry Carly, you may still be going to hell, but the fact is I really can’t be sure. Good luck!
Chelsea Bieker is a Mustang Daily reporter and a journalism senior.